


Vital Statistics

by FuzzyBlueStockings



Category: Office Romance (1977), Служебный роман (1977)
Genre: 1970s, F/M, Love, Moscow, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Soviet Union, statistics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2020-08-23 07:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuzzyBlueStockings/pseuds/FuzzyBlueStockings
Summary: Lyudmila Prokofievna Kalugina: Age 36. Residence: Moscow, Arbat District. Occupation: Director, Central Statistical Directorate.Anatoly Yefremovich Novoseltsev: Age 41. Residence: Moscow, Tverskoy District. Occupation: Clerk, Light Industry Division, Central Statistical Directorate. Children: two....and one pending.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Office Romance ends with a subtitle telling us that, nine months after the final scene, Lyudmila and Anatoly will have a son.
> 
> I found the comic and dramatic possibilities of those nine months too tempting to resist.

"_Tovarisch_ Novoseltsev," a still-shaky Lyudmila turned her head and addressed the bed's other occupant. "This much I hope I have made clear: I do not accept your resignation." 

Anatoly's face relaxed into a smile. 

"_Ponyatno_." 

Dusk bathed Lyudmila's room in a rich, deep-sea blue, but not even the welcome coolness of her pillow relieved her flush of unease. Anatoly reached out to run his fingers through her hair, but a hazy glimpse of the tense look on her face stopped him.

He let out a soft laugh. For a man she once thought meek, there was a quiet confidence about Anatoly Efremovich Novoseltsev now. Perhaps it was because the situation did not require him to speak at length. And she supposed that people inhabit different selves in different situations—or so she once heard. She wouldn't know. It was work enough to manage her one and only self.

"It'll be all right, Lyuda." 

_Lyuda_.

An electric charge ran through her. She hadn't prepared herself for that. No one had called her that since childhood—and not often then. Father's little_ soldatka_, a straight-backed trooper even at five, was not inclined to be that familiar with anyone. Her instinctive reaction was indignation. How dare he take such liberties! But of course, he was the man with whom she just took the ultimate liberty. That realization kept her from objecting.

Still, it was all so uncomfortable.

"You probably think you've won," she muttered, facing the ceiling. 

"Won?" 

"Yes, won. We had a fight, after all." 

"We did, didn't we?" He propped his hand under his chin. "But I don't think of it as winning."

"Then what do you think?" 

"Well, I—"

"Yes?"

His face broke into a guilty smile.

"Well, I regret to inform you, Lyudmila Prokofievna, but I think your office has a discipline problem." 

This time, she couldn't help but crack up as well. She'd often said as much, never suspecting that one day _she'd_ be the discipline problem. But this much was undeniable: They'd left a terrible mess in the office. Papers everywhere. Upturned chairs. A real nightmare.

"I hate to resort to this, but I'll have to bribe the cleaning staff not to talk," she said. 

"You can try, but I don't think it'll work. You know how things get around."

An overlong silence followed. 

"Anatoly," her voice had an uncertain lilt when she finally spoke up.

"Yes?" 

"Shouldn't you be going?" 

That seemed to deflate him a little. "Should I?" 

"What I mean is"—she struggled to collect her thoughts—"Your children. They'll be waiting, won't they?" 

"Ah, yes." Anatoly willed himself upright. Lyudmila thought to turn on a light but then decided against it. 

She tucked her chin over the blanket. 

"I hope I will get to meet them someday," she said as she watched him pull one of his socks on.

"You will. We'll all be seeing a lot of each other." 

"Oh, you think so?" She tried to regain a touch of her former imperiousness, if only to give herself the illusion of control after such a bewildering day. 

He was still smiling. 

"Yes, I think so."

She reached over for her clock, pretending it was an object of extreme interest to her.

"Very well. I shall see you tomorrow, Anatoly Yefremovich."

He shot a sly look back at her, then dove in for a kiss.

"Until tomorrow, Lyuda." 

_Lyuda_ again. But now it just filled her with a funny sort of ache that she somehow did not want to be rid of. An ache that leaves one giddy? What foolishness, she chided herself. It does not become you.


	2. Chapter 2

"Verochka, read me my schedule for tomorrow."

Lyudmila's secretary put down her cigarette.

"Hm? Oh. Let's see. You have a planning meeting, then lunch with the minister—"

"Postpone it."

"Postpone?"

"Yes. I have a doctor's appointment."

"A doctor's appointment?"

"Yes, a doctor's appointment! Do I have to repeat everything for you?"

Lyudmila hoped the sharpness of her tone would be enough to rout Verochka's natural curiosity. She should have known better.

Verochka didn't wait five seconds after Lyudmila's exit—only enough time for a wide-eyed but hushed "_Gospodi!_"—to grab the telephone and dial the extension of a fellow gossip-monger downstairs.

"Alyona, are you seated? You'd better be. I have the biggest news in history!"


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you mean, 'take care of it?'"

"You know exactly what I mean, Anatoly Yefremovich. Don't make me spell it out for you."

"I won't stand for it, Lyuda!"

_"It isn't your place to stand for it!"_ Lyudmila was now shouting. 

Both of them had quick tempers; their rounds of sparring in and out of the office were evidence enough of that. Anatoly was first to get a handle on his, if only because he now had Lyudmila's health to consider. 

"I—I only don't understand. Why don't you want—"

"Because, as I've told you, my life follows a certain trajectory. I have my position to think of. I'm the head of the Statistics Directorate! My work _has_ to come first. And I—"

Her voice quivered.

"And I am not maternal, Anatoly Yefremovich. I should think you'd know that by now." 

Anatoly let out a heavy sigh.

"Then where are we, Lyuda? I have my boys to consider, you know. And if you don't like children, then—that's it. We can't continue."

The truth of that statement packed a wallop. But she kept herself from showing it. 

"I didn't say I didn't like children. I just know myself too well. I know I wouldn't be a good mother."

"Who says?" 

"Who needs to say? It's a fact. I just can't risk it."

"Lyuda, forgive me, but that is a stupid way of thinking."

"What?" 

"None of us is good at anything at first! I was not a good father until I had my boys, how could I be? How would you know you aren't good at something you've never done?" 

"Anatoly—" 

"You used to say I was lucky to have children. If you don't want them, fine, but now you're just making excuses. I think you're afraid." 

"Anatoly Yefremovich, I hardly think I need any lectures from you! I—" 

Something churned in her. Something other than anger. She grimaced, said,

"We are not finished here!"

...and then ran straight for the bathroom. She hadn't felt this sick in years. In the throes of misery, she wondered how to keep this unfortunate new ritual a secret in the office. And the odds did not look good, because any illusion she'd successfully kept it a secret in her own apartment was dashed when she heard Anatoly's muffled voice behind the door.

"If I thought this was some kind of strange joke, I guess this proves it isn't." 

"Anatoly Yefremovich!" she called out to him. "How dare you stand within earshot!" 

"Can I get you some water?" 

"No. You're not my nursemaid." 

At long last, she rose, washed her face, reapplied her eye and lip makeup (what a time to have acquired a sense of vanity!), crept toward the door, and opened it. 

"I disobeyed you. Here," Anatoly said as he handed her the water. 

She took a gulp without looking at him.

"When are you leaving?" 

Anatoly threw his hands in the air. 

"Is that all you can say? You sound like a broken record. 'When are you leaving?' 'When are you leaving?'" 

"Tolya—"

"If you don't want me around, I'll go, then!" 

"I'm thinking of your children, Anatoly! After all this, I'm surprised you aren't." 

"Oh, no? It so happens that they're at their Uncle Lyosha's!" 

Their voices had risen again by this point, but Anatoly's last statement caught her off-guard. 

"—what?" 

Anatoly responded only with a matter-of-fact shrug, which did not satisfy Lyudmila.

"But why?" 

"Well, for them, it's a chance to see their cousin's new dog." 

He paused for a split-second.

"But also, I thought it might give me the chance to stay the weekend." 

Lyudmila responded only with a flummoxed blink. 

"—anyway," sighed Anatoly, "I guess there's no hope for that now. Good night, Lyudmila. I will see you—"

"Wait!" 

Lyudmila had embarrassed herself with that outburst. Her thoughts raced ahead of her speech.

"Well—so long as it's all arranged. I—yes. You may stay." 

"Well, thank you for so generously making an allowance, but I can just as easily—"

"No!" She drew in a sharp breath. "I mean, please stay. I want you to." 

Anatoly smiled.

"Will there be dinner enough for two?" 

"Yes, I'll get started—"

"No, no! I'll cook. You rest."

"But I—" 

_"Otdiikhai!" _

The sight of him springing into action and fussing over her amused her, so for once she didn't put up a fight. 

"And another thing," she said over dinner, "Can you imagine how people in the office would talk? I'd lose all respectability." 

"Lyuda," he shook his head before helping himself to some greens. "They're always going to say _something_. Before, they called you a hag and me a mouse. Whatever they choose to say now—it'll be nothing new."

"You're right. But I wish they'd mind their own business."

That night, too, was a first—falling asleep in a man's arms. She hadn't even taken done that with Ignatiy, that long-ago, roving-eyed fiance of hers. She only wished she weren't quite so groggy for the conversation they were having. It called for a clearer head than hers. 

"Tolya," 

"Yes?" 

"If I had this child, where would you be?" 

"Right here."

"What do you mean, right here?"

"As your husband, or however else it might suit you." 

"Oh, don't be absurd, Anatoly." She turned herself to one side. "There is no 'however else.' The party committee would have my head if they found out I was an unwed mother." 

"Ah yes, the party." He nodded. "Funny how they end up even here."

Lyudmila opened one eye and looked up at him quizzically.

"Do you always talk sedition before bed?" 

She felt him chuckle and lay his chin on the top of her head.

"Not as a rule. Was that seditious?" 

"A little, I think. Anyway, too much for my taste."

She tried to fall asleep, but another question reared its importunate head. 

"Tolya, if I _don't_ have this child, will you leave me?" 

A little air escaped his chest, but then he said. 

"I wouldn't want to. I love you."

"Good." She closed her eyes again.

Anatoly brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed it. 

"_Spokoinoi Nochi, Moya Mimra_." 

With her last bit of strength, she slapped him across the cheek. Not with any real force—just to let him know that she didn't appreciate the insult, however affectionate his intent. 


	4. Chapter 4

> "Respected Olga Petrovna,
> 
> I wish to make good on my offer of friendship, however belatedly, and invite you to my flat for tea and _zakuski_ this Sunday. I would be honored if you would accept.
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Lyudmila Prokofievna Kalugina.” 

It was certainly no forgery, Olga thought to herself. Such stiff formality in a simple invitation would have been surprising from anyone else, but it fit her boss’s personality perfectly. Maybe it also suggested uneasiness? Something weighing on her mind? It was difficult to tell. But that whisper she’d heard about Lyudmila Prokofievna. Could it be...? She stopped herself. She knew all too well the perils of the rumor mill. 

“Good for you,” said Alexei, without looking up from_ Izvestiya_. “Maybe you’ll have a chance at a promotion.” 

“It’s not that kind of meeting,” Olga replied as she looked through her closet. “Just a social call.” 

“Even so, it can’t hurt. We could use the extra income.” Alexei folded his paper and left the room.

Ordinary life again, Olga thought. Dull, safe, sane. No more dancing on the edge of a cliff with her eyes fixed only on Yura—Yurka—no. Stop. Just plain Yury Grigorievich now. The man whom she’d dreamt could be more than a friend again before having to face the harsh reality that he’d become less than one. 

Ah well. If life had once again become uninteresting, it at least felt like hers and not that of a foolish, tragic waif. 

“Come in,” Lyudmila sped past when Olga entered. “Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Everything’s almost ready. I’ll just be a moment.”

It was an impressive spread. Impressive apartment, too—a large balcony, a chandelier, a Modigliani reproduction. But then that was hardly a surprise. This was the Arbat, after all, and Lyudmila was _ nomenklatura_. Olga watched as she set down the last plate of marinated mushrooms. 

“Did you have any trouble getting here? Not too much ice?” 

“Oh no, not at all.” Olga studied her face. “They cleared the streets yesterday.” 

Lyudmila offered her some cabbage, which she accepted.

Pickled cabbage, pickled cucumbers, marinated mushrooms. Nothing out of the ordinary for _zakuski,_ but it made her wonder. Could it mean—no. Don’t pry. Don’t risk offending her.

But when Lyudmila bit into a pickle and her face betrayed a bit too much silent enthusiasm, their eyes locked. 

“I—I’m doing a terrible job of hiding it, aren’t I?” 

Olga put a hand to her mouth. 

“So it’s true, then?”

Lyudmila winced. “I knew there’d be talk.” 

“And—it’s Tolya’s?” Olga’s voice rose in excitement. 

“Of course it is!” she snapped. “What do you take me for?” 

“Forgive me, Lyudmila Prokofievna. I didn’t mean it that way.” Olga’s first instinct after recovering from her embarrassment was to offer her congratulations, but she could see from her boss’s face that this was not necessarily good news.

“Does—does he know?” She stopped herself. “Oh, please excuse me for asking. He never said anything about getting married again, and he would’ve told me by now, I—”

“He knows. But I don’t know if I can keep it.” 

“I... see.”

“I don’t know what to do. And that’s why I wanted to ask you—” 

Olga felt her throat tighten. 

“Oh—I—Lyudmila Prokofievna, no. I don’t think I’m the right person to—”

“Yes,” Lyudmila interjected, giving her guest an urgent stare. “Please, you are. I need an impartial source.”

“I’ve been friends with Tolya for 20 years,” Olga replied, relaxing somewhat into a wry smile. “You can hardly call me impartial.” 

“And I am your boss,” replied Lyudmila, reverting to her flat, commanding director’s voice. “Might that not alter the balance as well?” 

Was she trying to intimidate her? Olga, though still nervous, refused to take the bait. 

“With respect, Lyudmila Prokofievna, I can find another job if I need to. I cannot find another friend of 20 years.” 

Lyudmila’s face softened, but she did not smile. “And that tells me why you have friends of 20 years, Whereas I do not.” 

She smoothed her hair away from her forehead. “I am sorry to put you in this position, truly. But this might be now or never. I need a woman’s opinion.”

Was she really the only woman she could talk to, Olga wondered? Surely there was Verochka, at least—but, of course, Verochka was the last person anyone could count on for discretion. 

“What do you want to know?” she said. 

Lyudmila leaned over the table. “Whether it’s worth it.”

“What?” 

“All the pain, the work, the frustration. Was it worth it for you?” 

“Ah,” Olga said, returning to a smile that in her younger years had come more easily. “No question. My children are my life. I'm prouder of them than anything. But we are different. I always knew I wanted to be a mother. It came naturally to me.” 

“I see,” Lyudmila. 

“I only mean that it’s not something to be undertaken lightly.” Olga continued. “There are women who are not suited for motherhood.”

“Such as me,” Lyudmila looked grim. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean you,” Olga hastened to reply. “I was thinking more of—Lyudmila Prokofievna, do you remember Liza?” 

“I do not, but Verochka told me what happened. Poor Anatoly. What an awful woman!” 

“I wouldn’t judge her too harshly,” said Olga. “She had a terrible time of it. And after her mother died in an accident, she—” she paused. “Please don’t tell Tolya I told you, but she became an alcoholic. The man she ran off with was, too. I don’t know. I think life just became too much for her.” 

“As if that’s any excuse,” Lyudmila huffed. “My mother died during the war. My sister and I had to spend six months in a children’s home until Father came back. But you don’t see me drinking myself stupid over it.” 

That was a lot to take in. Olga took a breath.

“I think every person is different,” she said gently. “If I had a stronger character, I’m sure I never would have thrown myself at Yura.”

She saw Lyudmila’s eyebrows lift.

“Yes, you are surprised to hear me mention him! Well, don’t be. I didn’t care how he treated me, but once he came after Tolya, I saw everything clearly.”

“That tells me more about your character than anything else. However it came about, I’m glad I have the chance to know you better.”

Warmth from Lyudmila Prokofievna? The boss? The ice-veined _starukha_? A mere month ago, Olga never would have dreamt it. 

“Sometimes things are easier to see when they’re not happening to you, that’s all.” 

“I see.” 

Lyudmila pushed her empty plate forward. “I do appreciate our talk, Olga Petrovna. Unfortunately, I’m more confused about the matter than ever.” 

“Lyudmila Prokovieva,” 

“Yes?” 

“Have you met Tolya’s boys?” 

“What? Oh, no. No, I haven’t yet. Things have been so busy, and—” 

“All the same, I think you should, and soon. It’d give you a sense of what you’d be in for.” 

Sensing a touch of apprehension on Lyudmila’s face, she made a move to reassure her. 

“I mean, I suspect you haven’t been around children in a while, is that right?” 

Lyudmila nodded.

“Then you should see if you get along with them. I have a hunch you will. They’ve got a talent for mischief, of course, but they’re sweet-natured. It’d be a good way to see if you’re ready for a family.” 

“I should be past ready for one,” Lyudmila said self-consciously. 

“Don’t worry too much about it. After all, it’s not a meeting with the minister.” 

Lyudmila let out a soft laugh. 

“But I know what to expect from the minister.” (“For better or worse,” she did not say out loud.)

“It’ll all work out. Trust me.” 

Lyudmila wanted to. And Olga had proven herself worthy of her trust. But after they said their goodbyes, both women had nagging doubts. Olga, about the burden of responsibility she was just asked to shoulder—imagine advising her boss on whether to have a baby!—and Lyudmila, because she couldn’t imagine taking to motherhood as effortlessly as the woman who’d glowed when she spoke of her children and had for so long looked after her own bumbling Anatoly. 

But she was probably right about meeting his sons.


	5. Chapter 5

Was this all part of a plan, too? Was Anatoly keeping up the pretense of caring for her just to get his family the advantages that came with her position? A better apartment? Better schools? How tempting that would be. And how convenient.

Now you’re getting paranoid, she reprimanded herself silently. As her driver rounded the corner to Chernyshyevskovo Street, she tried to shake off her nerves. 

“Put it away, Petya,” she heard from outside his door.

“But Papa—” 

“I said put it away! Do you want her to scream?” 

The door opened. 

“Ah, yes. Forgive me, Lyuda. Please come in.” 

She did so, cautiously. The first thing she noticed, after Anatoly, was a kitchen door painted three-quarters green. A little odd. But never mind.

“Boys, this is Lyudmila Prokofievna. Say hello.”

Vova, the elder son, shook her hand solemnly. 

“We’ve spoken on the phone, I think,” said Lyudmila, trying to remember how one spoke to children.

Vova nodded without saying anything.

“And this is Petya.”

Lyudmila shook his hand too. He smiled before running to the corner of the room and back. 

“And this is Bogdasha,” he said, placing the contents of his hands into hers.

She jumped a little when she felt what it was, but quickly clasped her hands to keep the little frog from escaping. 

“Petya! No! What did I tell you?!” Anatoly shouted. 

“I just wanted her to meet him!” Petya whimpered. “You said she should meet everyone!”

Anatoly put a hand to his forehead. “Lyudmila, If I had any idea—” 

“No no, it’s all right. Really,” she said. 

She peered at the creature through the hole between her thumbs and index finger.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Bogdasha,” Petya said, poutily. 

“I see. Quite a name for such a little fellow,” Lyudmila said. She felt the damp, clammy sensation of one of Bogdasha’s tiny cheeks swelling against her closed palm.

“He will be big someday,” Petya insisted. “He’ll be the biggest frog in the whole world!”

“That’s all we need,” Anatoly muttered. He shepherded him and Lyudmila over to the corner, near the sofa. “Well, for now we’ll put Bogdasha away. We need to wash up for lunch.” 

“Are you all right?” he whispered to Lyudmila as they deposited Bogdasha into his little covered bowl.

“Of course. Such things don’t bother me,” she said with a somewhat exaggerated air of superiority. “You should know better.”

But whatever feeling of triumph she felt at weathering that introduction faded over lunch. The talk was mainly about Vova’s progress at school and Petya’s new friend—apparently, they had caught Bogdasha together and had agreed to take turns with him—and Lyudmila felt very much like an outsider. And in this cramped two-room apartment, she became keenly aware of how much precious space she was taking up. She sat and listened, but felt a little lost. 

Something occurred to her. She reached for her bag. 

“I forgot. These are for you,” She handed each of the boys a thin box. 

“Colored drawing pencils from Czechoslovakia. They’re good quality. I hear even real artists use them.” She studied their faces as they opened them.

“Wasn’t that nice of her?” Anatoly prompted them. 

“I don’t draw,” said Vova

Anatoly shot him a dark look.

“Well, I don’t!” he protested.

“You can use them for your schoolwork, if you want. Different colors for different subjects? That’s how I keep my things straight.” 

“The teacher won’t allow it.”

“Vovka, don’t be difficult,” Anatoly scolded him. 

Vova fell silent. 

Petya, though, wasted no time breaking open the box and trying out its contents. And so the afternoon passed along, quiet and pleasant until a small gray, white-footed figure appeared on the windowsill.

“Ah, the famous drain-pipe cat!” said Lyudmila. “She must be—” 

—but before she could say anything further, the cat took note of a rustle in Bogdasha’s bowl and immediately leapt toward it. She skidded on the table and knocked over Petya’s box of pencils, which went flying. Anatoly ran to catch her, and Lyudmila took a step to follow him--and felt her foot roll under one of the scattered pencils. She fell halfway and then caught herself on a chair. 

“_ Bozhe moi _, Lyuda!” Anatoly cried after the cat was shooed away. “Are you hurt?”

Lyudmila shook her head but didn’t say anything. Not hurt, no. But definitely overcome with… something. She didn’t know what felt more destabilizing: the fall, the suspicious look she got from Vova upon seeing Anatoly rush to her side? Or the fact that, while one of her hands grabbed the chair to break her fall, the other had cradled her stomach? How strange. She had done it without thinking. And never would have if not for—

Anatoly wiped his brow and bent over to begin gathering the pencils. 

“No, let me! Let me!” shouted Petya. He began circling the room. 

“Odin… Dva… Tri… Chetiryi…” 

“So you can count already!” said Lyudmila though, truth be told, she didn’t remember at what age children learned such things. 

Petya stuck his chin out. “Yes, can you?”

Lyudmila stifled a chuckle and looked up at Anatoly, who seemed surprised and relieved to see her in such good spirits. She turned back to Petya. 

“Yes, I do. Actually, for my job, I need to, very often, so I’ve had lots of practice. Do you want to count together?” 

She sat on the floor and he walked toward her with the pencils in his hand. Together, they chanted: 

“Odin, Dva, Tri, Chetiryi, Pyat..” 

She waited for him..

“...sssshest.” 

“Very good,” she replied. “And Syem…”

Petya bit his lip. “Syem…” 

“Vosyem…” 

For a second Petya was unsure, but then, in a flash of inspiration….

“Vosyem, Devyat, Desyat!”

“Molodets!” said Lyudmila, which thrilled him so much that he ran over and threw his arms around her. His small head felt feather-soft against her neck. Instinctively she kissed his forehead, but then lurched away. 

What made her do that? To kiss someone else's child? It felt like a transgression of some sort, though somehow it also felt like the rightest thing in the world. Lyudmila’s breath escaped her. A wave of feeling—not yet nameable, yet stronger than anything she’d known before—overtook her

She struggled to get up. 

“Lyuda—” Tolya’s tone was soft but anxious. 

Lyudmila put a hand over her mouth before gaining enough composure to respond. 

“Tolya, I—I need to go.” 

Without another word or look back, she grabbed her coat and left. 

Her driver was waiting for her. She got in the car and closed her eyes. This was… what was it? Something new. Something once dormant. The pain and prickle of a phantom limb coming to life. 

“Are you all right, Lyudmila Prokofievna?” Her driver peered at the rear-view mirror. 

“Yes,” she exhaled. 

After a moment. 

“Semyon,” 

“Yes?” 

“You have children, if I recall?” 

“Yes, two daughters. Nine and seven.” 

“I see. And how… how did you know you were ready for them?”

“What a question!” He laughed a little in disbelief, made a turn, and then smoothed his hair back. 

“I guess… when I took my wife home from the hospital. That’s the closest I can say. But you’re never ready. No one is. And if anyone thinks he is, he’s a fool. Anyone..” 

Lyudmila didn’t answer. She stared out the window at nothing in particular. He drove up to her entrance, and she left.

And when she shut the door behind her, the door to her large, well-furnished, empty apartment, she sobbed. 

It was impossible. All of it. Simply impossible. She couldn’t imagine raising a child and running the Statistics Directorate. It would be too much. And motherhood! She didn’t know the first thing about it. It would never work. She had a million and one reasons not to go through with it, and they all flooded her mind at once. But the basic truths had always been there, throbbing underneath without regard for practicality or reason. 

_ I want a child. I want a family. I want to see a little face that looks like mine. I want to know what that’s like. I want this child, and I always have. _

She found herself sitting against a wall on the floor by the time she came to grips with herself. She felt overwhelmed still, and yet there was a growing clarity to her situation. One that, despite its fearful complications, filled her with a rising sense of possibility. 

The phone rang.

_ Let it be Tolya. Please let it be Tolya. Please— _

‘“Lyuda?”

“Yes?” 

“Lyuda, is everything all right? You looked so—”

“I’m fine, Tolya.” 

“If I had known what a disaster this was going to be, I wouldn’t have—” 

“Tolya, I’m going through with it.”

“What?” 

“I mean, I’m not going through with it!” she sputtered, thinking of the appointment she now knew she wouldn’t keep—and the new ones she had to make.

“Lyuda, what are you—”

“Tolya, please. I’m—what I mean is—I want to be a mother. I want to have this baby. But I can’t do this without you, so please, just say that you’ll be there.” 

There was a strange, tense silence on the other end. 

“And you chose to say this now, Lyuda? Now, of all times!” 

Her heart sank. 

“After all, a man wants to make his proposal in person. This ruins all my plans!”

Lyudmila shut her eyes in elated relief. 

“You don’t have to now, Tolya. We can wait. How about tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow before work. All right. Just so long as I don’t need to do it now. I must have time to prepare.” 

Lyuda laughed. “You’ll have until tomorrow. Or do you need an extension?” 

“I’ll manage.” 

“Tolya,”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t believe you when you first said you loved me. And even after, when you said it, I had doubts. But I love you. I know that now. And so I guess I’ll have to believe that you feel the same. I need to.” 

A pause. 

“Have I ever said it before? I don’t remember.” 

“You haven’t. But it was worth waiting for.”

They wished each other good night. Lyudmila held the phone against herself before hanging it up. Now another feeling washed over her, a kind of grand impulsive joy that made her feel like shouting from the balcony. But she held onto her common sense. Even in her state of high-flying delirium, she had to remind herself that making the neighbors think she'd been attacked, or was drunk, was no way to celebrate. Sleep, however difficult it would be, was the better option.


End file.
